


Roses and Thorns

by lysscor



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blood and Gore, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jack the Ripper Murders, M/M, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 08:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysscor/pseuds/lysscor
Summary: She didn't mean for it to happen.A single mistake sends Hitoka's life as she knows it crumbling to ash. She is forced to run - directly onto the scene of a murder.When she meets Kiyoko Shimizu, a beautiful, dangerous girl with a mysterious past, she finds herself drawn into her world of darkness. She knows this path is a deadly one. But she's come too far to turn back now.Does she even want to?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yall i've been wanting to write this for like?? four years now?? so i'm pumped as fuck to actually be getting it on the page omgomgomg i'm super proud of what I've got so far, and beyond excited to write the rest!!! buckle your mcfuckin seatbelts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a bunch of blood and gore, so if that makes you feel icky then probably skip it.

_London, 1895_

 

Blood. It’s everywhere. All over her hands, her dress, her face. It’s up to her elbows, in the creases of her knuckles, underneath her fingernails. She can feel it, creeping over her and through her and _in her_ \- hot and sticky and awful, awful, _awful_. 

What has she done?

Oh, god, what has she _done_?

She looks down at the corpse at her feet - and bites back a scream. His body is a mangled mess, almost unrecognizable from the man he once was. His face is in tatters. Gashes trace his skin freely, separating lips from teeth, hair from scalp, skin from bone. One eye has been slashed clean through and is leaking a mix of blood and other fluids across his mangled cheek. The other is dangling sickeningly halfway out of its socket. If she looks close enough, she thinks hysterically, she might be able to see his brain.

She doesn’t dare look close enough.

There is so much _blood_ …

It creeps over her shoes, seeping into the fabric of her skirts; she frantically scrambles back, back, away from it. She presses her back to the wall, breathing raggedly, and pulls her knees to her chest. Her chest heaving, she brings shaking, bloodied hands up to her face; covers her eyes against the horrible sight of her heinous deed, but it does no good. She can still see it. Even when she presses the heels of her palms firmly against her eyes, she can still see it. The mangled face, the torn-apart chest. 

The blood.

All that damned blood.

Tears escape her eyes. They mix with the blood on her cheeks. She weeps not for the savaged corpse on the floor; she weeps not for the man she once knew. For she knows deep in her heart that he deserved what he got, and she feels no guilt over her act. She feels only disgust at what she has done, horror at the sight before her, fear of what is to come next. She weeps for herself. 

She buries her hands in her hair, smearing streaks of red through the pale locks, and she screams. 

Tears of blood drip to the floor.

And her rose-shaped necklace sits against her chest, cold and red and bloodied like the heart which beats no more.


	2. Chapter One

Hitoka Yachi can’t remember ever being without her red rose necklace, but she remembers the exact day it was given to her - her seventh birthday. 

It was a sunny day, the air crisp with the beginning of autumn. A cool breeze rustled the reddening leaves of the Mountain Ash beside the river. She had been sitting under that tree, as she did most days, for the better part of the afternoon. Her shoes had been kicked off and her stockings tossed aside so that she could dip her toes into the water. Her mother hated that she did that. 

Her mother hated a lot of the things she did.

“You’re getting too old for such childish things,” she would scold her as she brushed the leaves off her dress and the grass from her hair. “You must start to act like a proper young lady, or what are people going to think of you?”

She was quite fond of saying that -  _ what are people going to think of you? _ She didn’t seem to understand that Hitoka had never much cared one way or another.

Hitoka slid her leg further into the water, soaking the hem of her dress, when a voice sounded from behind her.

“Hitoka!”

Tadashi Yamaguchi came running down the hill, all awkward limbs and too-big clothes. He was bare headed, as usual (he was forever losing his hats), which gave Hitoka the perfect view of his shiny black hair that simply refused to lie flat. The son of the nearby farmer, Yamaguchi was Hitoka’s dearest friend. They spent nearly all of their time together - at least when Yamaguchi wasn’t working for his father and Hitoka wasn’t sitting her lessons in her family’s manor. His family didn’t have very much money, which was obvious in his disheveled appearance and tattered, hand-me-down clothes, but Hitoka didn’t care. He was silly and fun to play with and he always let her pick the game. He taught her how to climb trees and she showed him how to jump rope and he had kissed her better when she’d scraped her knee and cried. To Hitoka, that mattered far more than the clothes he wore. They were children, after all.

He would become another subject of Hitoka’s mother’s disdain, when the children would become teenagers, and teenagers young adults who grew closer each day. But she hadn’t known that at the time. 

At the time, all she had known was that Yamaguchi was running so fast he looked like he might trip, and he was grinning ear to ear. He waved at her, and Hitoka noticed he had something in his hand.

“Hi,” she said when he skidded to a stop beside her, panting with his hands on his knees.

“Hi,” he huffed. He stood straight then, grinning the way he always did, and his unruly hair bounced. “I brought you a present.”

She blinked, confused at the little pink box he held in his tiny outstretched hand. It had a yellow ribbon tied around it. “What for?”

“For your birthday, silly.” He plopped down beside her, sticking his bare feet into the water. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Yamaguchi hardly ever wore shoes. He pushed the box into her hands. “Open it!”

She did. Inside, on a bed of deep velvet, sat a necklace: a simple red rose pendant on a silver chain. It was the most beautiful thing Hitoka had ever seen.

“It’s so pretty,” she gasped.

Yamaguchi sat up proudly. “I saved my money for three  _ whole  _ months to get it for you. Mommy even let me come with her to the shops to pick it out.”

She looked at him with sparkling eyes. “You bought it yourself? You’re so grown up, Tadashi!”

He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be proud or embarrassed. He settled on a pleased sort of smile, his freckled cheeks dusted pink. “Here,” he said importantly. “Let me help you put it on.”

He fastened the clasp behind her neck, brushing her hair off to the side so it wouldn’t get caught. It took him a couple tries - his clumsy, childish fingers couldn’t quite grip the tiny clasp - but eventually he succeeded, and he sat back proudly.

Hitoka looked down at the necklace. The pendant fell just beneath her collarbones; it looked even  _ prettier _ on, small and delicate and impossibly red against her pale skin. She held the rose carefully between her fingertips, admiring it, then let it fall back against her chest.

“I’ll never take it off,” she promised. “Not even when I die.”

Yamaguchi’s smile was even brighter than the afternoon sun. To them, the promise meant everything.

They were children, after all.

 

***

 

She’s wearing it now. Its weight is familiar against her chest. The house is silent, save for the tapping of her knife against the cutting board and the occasional  _ drip, drip, drip _ of the leaky faucet. 

He really must fix that. She has been reminding him for ages, for all the good it does.

 

***

 

She was ten years old the first time he kissed her. 

They were climbing the tree by the river, as they did many summer afternoons, and he was on a higher branch than she was. He had always been a better climber than she. Her mother would have said it was because Yamaguchi was a boy, and boys are far better suited for such acts. 

“Young ladies aren’t meant to run around like animals,” she would scowl as she bandaged Hitoka’s scraped knees. “Honestly, darling, you’re spending entirely too much time with that farm boy. What will people think?”

_ What will people think? _

“Hey!” Yamaguchi grinned down at her from his branch. “I can see the church from here!”

Hitoka gasped. The church was in town - so far away! It took nearly an hour by carriage. Hitoka always hated the journey. It was terribly boring, and the way the carriage jostled on the bumpy road always made her feel sick. “Really?” She looked in the direction he was pointing, but all she could see were the trees along the riverside. “I can’t see it.”

“You’re not high up enough,” he told her. “Here, come up onto my branch.”

 He scooted aside to make room for her. Hitoka shuffled up onto her knees and stretched out her arm, but the branch was just out of reach. She huffed in annoyance. Curse her short arms!  _ This is the real reason boys are better at climbing trees _ , she thought grumpily.  _ They’re just taller _ . There was only one thing for it. She would have to stand up.

She shuffled about a bit, making sure she was well-balanced, and then carefully got to her feet. She reached for the branch again, but it was still too high, so she stretched herself up to her tippy toes - 

And her stockinged foot slipped off the branch. 

She heard Yamaguchi cry out as she toppled backwards; saw his hand reach frantically for hers - but he was too late. She slipped from her branch, her shins scraping painfully against the rough bark. She screamed as she fell, arms flailing wildly, desperately, fingers grasping at air, searching for something -  _ anything _ \- to grab on to -

In a stroke of luck, her hand closed around a branch. The bark dug into her palm, and the abrupt stop felt like it would pull her arm from its socket - but she was okay. Tears of pain and fear stung her eyes. 

“Hitoka!” Yamaguchi had scrambled down the tree after her, and was kneeling on the branch beside her hand. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. Tears were flowing freely now.

“Okay,” said Yamaguchi. He glanced at the ground, and then at her trembling arm. “We aren’t very far from the ground now. I can jump from here and then help you down after. Do you think you can hold on for another second?”

She nodded again.

“Okay,” he repeated. He shuffled until he was seated on the branch and then slid off. She heard him hit the ground a moment later. “You’re going to be okay,” he said from somewhere below her. “Just hold on.”

She felt his hands on her waist. “Alright,” he said, “I’ve got you. You can let go.”

Hitoka hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” His grip on her tightened, just slightly. “I won’t drop you. I promise.”

_ Promise _ . She relaxed at that. Yamaguchi had never before broken a promise. “Alright,” she said. “I’m letting go now.”

As she did, he held tight to her hips, guiding her to the ground. He was strong for his age, from helping his father around the farm, and barely stumbled as Hitoka’s feet touched the grass. 

“Are you alright?” he asked her. 

She nodded through the tears that were still falling. “Th-thank you, Tadashi.”

He frowned. “It’s my fault you fell in the first place. Is your hand okay? Let me see.” Hitoka held out her hand. The tree bark had cut deeply into it; blood and dirt mixed horribly on her palm. Fresh tears sprung up at the sight.

Yamaguchi took her hand gently, careful not to touch her bleeding palm. “Does it hurt?” he asked softly.

“T-terribly,” she sobbed.

“Do you want me to kiss it better?”

Yamaguchi had kissed her better countless times before, and it always helped. She nodded, expecting to feel his lips press softly to her injured hand. But instead, he leaned in close and kissed her quickly on the lips.

She blinked, startled. “Wh-what was that for?”

His cheeks were pink. “That’s how my dad kisses my mom better when she’s sad,” he said shyly.

Hitoka brought her uninjured fingers to her lips, and then to her cheek - surprisingly dry. Her tears had stopped. “I think it worked,” she told him.

His face lit up. “Really?”

“Really!”

He grinned, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

She was ten years old, bleeding from her hand. Her stockings were ripped, and her leg was scraped raw, and she knew her mother would have a fit when she saw her in such a state. But Yamaguchi’s lips were soft, and his smile was softer, and somehow it made everything feel okay.

__

_ *** _

 

_ “ _ Hitoka?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna marry me someday?”

Hitoka was sitting on the riverbank, shoes and stockings discarded so she could swirl her feet around in the water. Her skirts were hiked up past her knees; her mother had sworn yesterday that if she came home with a wet dress again, she would be forbidden from leaving the house for a week. Yamaguchi had no such concerns. He was knee-deep in the water, splashing about and startling any fish that ventured near. He had rolled his trousers up as high as they would go, but the ends were still soaked.

It was sunset. They were twelve years old.

“My mother would never allow it,” she said, kicking her feet lightly. “She wants me to marry a rich gentleman from the city. ‘Someone of our own calibre.’” She imitated her mother’s precise tones.

Yamaguchi made a face. He knew exactly what Hitoka’s mother thought of him - he and Hitoka had spent many hours discussing it, mainly after she finished one of her tirades about how Hitoka needed to  _ spend less time with that dirty farm boy; honestly darling, you’re a young lady now. It won’t do to be seen with the likes of him. What will people think? _

Yamaguchi kicked out petulantly, splashing water up to his shirt. “She doesn’t need to know,” he mumbled.

“How could we hide it?” Hitoka asked.

Yamaguchi frowned thoughtfully. Suddenly, struck by an idea, his face lit up. “We could run away,” he exclaimed. “We could go to America, or - or Africa!”

“Africa!” Hitoka gasped. She had heard tales of Africa, a faraway land with strange plants and frightening creatures. “Do you think we would see any elephants?”

Yamaguchi shuddered. “I hope not.” From the stories they had heard, elephants were fearsome creatures - bigger than a house, capable of destroying entire towns. “But what do you say? It would be awfully romantic to run away, like in the books.” Yamaguchi couldn’t read - his father couldn’t afford to send any of his sons to school - but Hitoka often read to him the books her governess assigned her.

“It  _ would _ be,” she agreed. “But what about your family? Wouldn’t you miss them?”

“They could visit us,” he shrugged. “Or they could even come with us.” he waded closer to her, smiling in the fading light. “Come on, Hitoka, say yes.”

She thought about it for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. It didn’t take long to reach her decision. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

His face lit up like she’d given him the greatest gift imaginable. Maybe she had. “Promise?” he asked.

She watched the way the dim sunlight warmed his face, turning his freckles to stardust and his eyes to molten gold. He was smiling, always smiling, kindly and beautifully. She didn’t know then that that smile was one he showed only to her, but she knew that she loved it dearly. She loved  _ him  _ dearly. Unconsciously, she fingered her red rose necklace, sitting comfortably against her chest even after all these years.

She was twelve years old, barely out of short dresses, but she knew in her heart that this was what she wanted. 

“Promise.”

That promise, like so many others, carried more weight than they could imagine. It was a promise, like so many others, they knew would never be broken. A promise, like so many others, that they would both hold dear to their hearts until their dying breaths.

They were just children, after all. And to a child, a promise is everything.

 

***

 

Hitoka scrapes the rest of the vegetables into the pot on the stove, turning up the heat. She glances to the window for the time - the old grandfather clock stopped ticking many months ago - yet another thing he swears he’ll get around to fixing. The sun is setting quickly, the sky outside a murky, pre-dusk blue. He should be home by now. He should have been home a while ago. But he isn’t.

Unsurprising.

 

_ *** _

 

She was sixteen years old and his hands were hard, rough with callouses, but they touched her so softly that it made her breath catch in her throat. He touched her like she was something precious, as beautiful and delicate as the rose around her neck. His fingers were warm against her skin, shaking ever so slightly. He was nervous. She was too.

She knew what they were doing was wrong. They were young and foolish and not even married. She could practically  _ hear _ her mother screaming at her...

But she didn’t care. She wanted this, more than she’d wanted anything in her life. That she was sure of.

_ “ _ Tadashi,” she whispered.

He stilled, eyes darting up to hers in concern. “Yes? Is everything alright? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

Her heart swelled with love, so much that she thought it might burst. She shook her head, smiling warmly. “No,” she said. She leaned up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. He returned it, melting against her, and her heart fluttered as though she had never been kissed before. He always made her feel that way - as if every kiss, every touch,  _ everything _ was the first one.

“I love you,” she murmured against his lips.

She felt him smile, and she opened her eyes to see it. It was beautiful, and warm, and kind. 

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Had she known that it would be the last time she’d hear him say it, she may have asked him to say it again. And again, and again, and again, until he lost his voice. She may have held him close and begged him never to leave. She may have taken his hand and insisted they run away now, while they still could - to France, to America, to anywhere far away from here.

She may have done many things, had she known she would never see him again.

But she didn’t know.

How could she have? 

She was only a child, after all. And children don’t ever think of what darknesses the future may hold.

 

***

 

The stew is ready before he gets home. Hitoka eats alone.

 

***

 

She was sixteen years old. She was crying, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her mother stood feet from her, yelling with such rage as Hitoka hadn’t heard since she was nine years old, breaking her great grandmother’s vase. Yelling about shame, about disappointment, about  _ what will people think of you _ and  _ no man will have you now _ .

Hitoka didn’t say that she didn’t care what anyone thought. She didn’t say that it didn’t matter if no other man would have her, because Tadashi would, and Tadashi was the only one she wanted, and she loved him, she loved him so much --

She didn’t say anything. She kept quiet as her mother ranted and raved, stayed silent at the awful names she spat, held her tongue at the threats that she would never leave her room again.

“That awful farm boy,” her mother hissed, “isn’t worth the dirt under our boots, Hitoka. It’s about time you realized that. You are not to see him again. Ever. Do you understand me?”

“Mother!” Hitoka cried.

“My word is final.” Her back was straight and her jaw was squared and her eyes were colder than Hitoka had ever seen them. “Your association with him has brought us enough shame already; I will have you dirty our name no further. Even if I have to lock you in your bedroom or send you overseas, I can assure you that you will not be seeing him again.

“Return to your bedroom whilst I decide what to do with you. I shall send for you presently.” 

Fresh tears filled Hitoka’s eyes. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to scream, to sob, to make her mother listen to her for  _ once _ in her life. But she knew it would do no good. She knew that her mind was made, and there was no unmaking it. Any attempts thereafter would only make the situation worse.

So she let the fight seep out of her. She dropped her arms limply to her sides, and she cast her eyes obediently to the ground. She turned to leave.

In the doorway, she paused.

“What?” her mother snapped. 

“I love him,” Hitoka whispered. A tear streamed from her face, disappearing against the beautiful carpet. It had been her grandmother’s carpet; her mother was quite proud of it. “You may be able to stop me from seeing him, but you can never stop me from loving him.”

There was a long pause. Hitoka didn’t think her mother would say anything.

“No,” she finally sighed. The anger had drained from her voice, replaced with a sadness Hitoka didn’t recognize. “No, I suppose I can’t.”

 

***

 

She was eighteen years old when she was married. 

Not to Yamaguchi. 

To some rich man from the city, a man her mother had chosen for her like choosing a dress. She told Hitoka about him, the day they were to meet.

“He’s a wonderful boy,” she said, tugging the ribbons of Hitoka’s corset ever tighter. “Quite the gentleman. He’s the eldest son, so his family’s wealth will be passed to him.”

Hitoka had bit her tongue to avoid saying what she was thinking - that she couldn’t care less if he was rich, that no amount of money would be worth the price of her happiness. That she would rather be poor, shamed, but happy with Yamaguchi than rich and miserable with a stranger.

She hadn’t spoken to him in two years. Her mother had made sure of that.

“It’s too tight, Mother,” she’d said, her voice carefully emotionless. “I can hardly breathe.”

“Good. Maybe this will give you something of a figure.”

Her mother did all the talking when they met with the man who was to be Hitoka’s husband. She smiled, offered him tea and cakes, and showed  him around the manor. She told him what a wonderful young lady Hitoka was, what a wonderful wife she would become. This marriage was to be immensely beneficial - not just to him, she assured him, but to his family too. He had agreed, of course - the family name Yachi was an old one, a respectable one, and it carried a lot of weight in social and business circles alike. It would be useful for him to be tied to it.

All the while, Hitoka had simply sat quietly, demurely, smiling when appropriate and speaking only when called upon to do so. She was the object of this business transaction, something to be bought and sold. For papers to be signed and hands to be shaken. For her mother to brag about to her friends, and for her husband to show off to his. She was not a child. She was not a person. 

She was the perfect little wife, right from the start.

 

***

 

It took only a few months for it to become clear that this marriage was a mistake. He was not the perfect gentleman her mother had described him as - he was a horrid man. Ill-mannered and short-tempered, sometimes even cruel. Hitoka supposed she should be grateful. He told her what to wear, forbade she leave the house, and shouted at her daily, though at the very least he didn’t hit her. Unless he was drinking, of course, which had become more and more frequent as time passed. 

As did the gambling.

But still -- it could have been worse.

At least she still had her thoughts; that was one thing he could not take away from her. She often daydreamed about escaping - dreamed of Tadashi coming to find her, sneaking away in the dead of night, running away to Africa like they had said they would all those years ago. She wrote him letters sometimes. Telling him about her life, her husband, the beautiful house on the outskirts of London in which she now lived. She wrote of how miserable she was. About how desperately she missed him, how she wished she could see him, how she longed for their summer days spent under the tree by the river.

She never sent the letters. There was no way she could. Each one she wrote was placed in a wax sealed envelope and carefully addressed - and then thrown into the fire in her bedroom, where no one would ever read it. 

She would sit and watch it crumble to ash. As the smoke would waft slowly up the chimney, she imagined it carried the words she wrote up into the sky. She imagined the words drifting on the wind, across the countryside, finally reaching the farm where Tadashi worked. He would pause, and look up, and he would feel the words wash over him. He would hear her voice, and he would know. He would know that she had never stopped thinking about him.

She clung to that thought. It was her lifeline. That, and the knowledge that it could always have been worse.

  
  


And then, it got worse. 

His father died, leaving nearly all of the family’s money to him. Within a year he had gambled it all away. They were forced to sell the house, along with almost everything they owned, and buy a new house - little more than a cottage, really - in the heart of Whitechapel. It was rundown and drafty and all the floorboards creaked. Her husband continued to drink, and continued to gamble, and continued to make Hitoka’s life miserable.

Eventually, she stopped writing the letters. She had run out of things to say.

She had run out of things to hope for. 

 

***

 

It is well after dark by the time he comes home, slamming the door open so that it hits the wall with a crash. Hitoka sits in one of the old wooden chairs by the table, toying absently with her rose necklace. Her eyes are fixed on the table - on the knife that rests on it, the metal shining every now and then when it catches the candlelight. She doesn’t look up, not even when he calls her name.

The stew has long since gone cold.

He is talking, but she isn’t listening. She can tell he’s drunk again, from the way he moves and the sound of his voice. She doesn’t care. Maybe she should. 

Her hand slides to the handle of the knife.

He comes into the kitchen, sees her sitting there. Then, he’s shouting. About what? She couldn’t say. She hears none of it. She hears nothing. Nothing but the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears. She stares at the knife, at her small fingers wrapped around the handle. It fits so well in her palm.

He slams a hand down on the table. She imagines the noise is deafening. And then there’s a hand clutching her chin, forcing her head back, making her look up into his red face, and he’s shouting at her and she sees him make a fist and she knows what’s coming next.

She grips the knife tightly, and she lashes out.

 

***

 

Hitoka Yachi is twenty years old. There is blood on her hands, in her hair, underneath her fingernails. 

She is no longer a child.

She has become a murderer.

_ What will people think of you _ ?


End file.
